


That Lullaby

by inkfiction



Category: Fringe (TV)
Genre: Archiving previous works, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22920082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfiction/pseuds/inkfiction
Summary: The one in which the Olivias end up in a prison cell in the alt!verse and fluff ensues.
Relationships: Olivia Dunham/Alternate Olivia Dunham
Kudos: 7





	That Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on Dec 7, 2011.
> 
> Just a little piece of O2 fluffiness which had been shaping up in my mind for some time. I eventually decided to write it down and put it up. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I find this fic is really close to my heart. So I tried to think of an enterprising title but ‘That Lullaby’ kept getting stuck in my head no matter how much I brain-stormed, so I thought: why not? Then there’s this book by Sarah Dessen called ‘This Lullaby’ which kinda seemed to have the perfect song for this. Liv’s POV (I know, again!). Any kind of feedback will be much appreciated!  
>   
>   
>   
>  **That Lullaby**  
>  _This lullaby is only a few words  
>  A simple run of chords  
> Quiet here in this spare room  
> But you can hear it, hear it  
> Wherever you may go…  
>  **~This Lullaby – Sarah Dessen**_

The cell is dark, more often than not, and too small for two people. The only light that ever comes is from under the crack of the door if they ever turn on the lights in the hallway outside, or when they open the door to give the two of you food, or take you out for your twice daily visit to the bathrooms. Or at times when the Secretary decides to visit you. But your eyes have sort of adjusted to the dark by now.

“How many days has it been?” you say, more to hear a sound than anything else. It’s been quiet for too long.

“I don’t know,” she says, as you knew she would.

“Do you – do you think we’ll ever get out of here?” You persist.

“I don’t know,” she says again.

You’ve had this conversation too many times by now for you to not pick up on the dull note of despair, and something close to hopelessness that tinges her voice. It makes you look sharply at the corner where her shadowy form is barely discernible, sitting against the wall, in the dark.

She can’t be giving up like this! But you know she hasn’t slept in days, keeping a lonely vigil at all hours. Half-a-dozen paces are enough to bring you by her side.

“Hey,” you say, sitting down beside her.

“Go away,” she groans. Your eyes, accustomed to the dark after living in it for so many days, can make out her face hidden behind her hands as she rubs her eyes. She sounds more tired than annoyed.

You bite your lip, wanting to comfort her in some way but not knowing how.

“Olivia,” you say softly.

“What?” Removing her hands away from her face, she turns towards you and snaps.

It makes you smile because, if only for a moment, she sounds just like her old self. You decide to be blunt.

“You’re tired,” you tell her. “You need to sleep–”

She’s shaking her head even before you’ve finished your sentence.

“What? You don’t need to sleep? What are you, superwoman?”

“I can’t–”

But you cut her off. “Seriously, what do you think you can accomplish by not sleeping?”

“But I–”

“It’s unhealthy, and it’s making you grumpy, and–”

_“Liv!”_

“–I won’t let you – what?”

“Shut up!”

“No, I’m not gonna shut up, you need to–”

_“You_ need to listen to me!”

“Okay, I’m listening, though whatever you’re gonna say won’t sway me, I don’t care if you–”

“I can’t sleep!”

“–can’t sleep? Nonsense, what gave you that idea–”

“Liv! I _can’t_ sleep!”

“You can’t – you mean you can’t – oh. You mean you–”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

You hang your head, suddenly quiet and a little embarrassed, realizing how you’d been going on. Liv Dunham and her foot-in-mouth disease. She breaks the silence.

“What, you thought I was being crazy and not sleeping on purpose?”

“Well–” you tell her a little defensively. “You sometimes do really crazy things.”

“Trust me, this isn’t one of those times. When you’ve been imprisoned by the Secretary of Defense of an alternate universe, you _need_ to sleep. Being awake is nightmarish enough!”

Guilt raises its head inside you, sinks talons into your heart, making it ache. It’s _your_ universe she’s trapped in. You can’t even say that you understand.

“I’m – I feel like–” she searches for words. “Like – I’m going insane…”

“Yeah,” you say, and then realize that you’ve just called her insane. “I mean–” you try to rectify, “I meant – I can sort of … understand,” you finish lamely, and decide to give up with a sigh. “So, what did you do when you couldn’t, you know, sleep before?”

She snorts. “Valium and whiskey.”

_“Together?”_

“Sometimes, after some really bad days at work.”

“My God!”

“I have a hollow leg,” she tells you.

“You could’ve died of–”

“–respiratory depression and cardiac arrest caused by a decreased level of brain activity, yeah, I know.”

You open your mouth to say something but she pats your leg. “I didn’t.”

There’s a lot you can say, want to say, but you stay quiet, fearing you might be over-stepping your mark, yet too worked up to let it go, until you hear her chuckling softly.

“Say it,” she says. “I know you’re dying to.”

“It was irresponsible,” you tell her gruffly.

She sighs. “I know. But right now I’d do it all over again if I could, because I _need_ to sleep!”

You look at her shadowed face for a moment, feel the despair in her voice, and the next thing you do is grab her by her shoulders, turn her around a little and push her down so that her head ends up in your lap. This is done so quickly that when she lets out a protesting sound, she’s already half-supine.

“What the – _hell,_ Liv–?”

“Be quiet, you!” It’s your turn to shut her up. “It’s time for drastic actions.”

_“What_ exactly do you plan on doing?” she says, trying to get back up.

“Stop it!” you push her back down. “Lie down, okay? Stretch your legs, go on.”

She’s still for a moment, you’re sure she’s glaring at you in the dark. Then you hear a resigned huff as she eases back down, straightening out her legs, relaxing. You smile to yourself as you slightly adjust her head in your lap, and lean more comfortably against the wall.

“Okay,” she says. “Now what?”

“So impatient,” you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Some wistful, old memories raise their head. “I used to do this for Rachel, you know. My Rachel,” you say softly. “When, sometimes, she couldn’t sleep. Before she … before …”

A silence follows, and then she touches her hand to yours lightly. Such a little gesture, but you know it’s meant to convey her condolences, grief, understanding, and a little affection, perhaps. You hold her hand, squeeze it gently to let her know that you understand what she means. And then you tuck her hair behind her ears, smoothing them back from her forehead, thread your fingers through them, running them through her hair in a relaxing motion. A snort follows.

“Really?” She says. _“This_ is your plan?”

“Oh, shut up,” you hit her lightly on the head and then resume the stroking of her hair. “Think of – I don’t know – warm beds, and hot cocoa with marshmallows, and – well, relaxing beaches or something!”

“Oh, does that work for you?” she says, with what you’re sure is a skeptical smile on her face. “Relaxing beaches? And you’re telling me to think about warm beds and hot cocoa – I _hate_ marshmallows, by the way – while I’m stuck here? Really, Liv? _Really?”_

“Sorry!” Maybe that was a bad move on your part. “Don’t think about warm beds and hot cocoa, with or without marshmallows.”

“Thank you! _Now_ it’s gonna work!”

“Hey!” you say. “Enough with the snark!”

Silence follows.

“Sorry,” she finally says. “I’m a little edgy.”

“I know,” you tell her in a softer tone. “Just – try and relax, okay?”

“Yeah.”

So for a while you just run your fingers through her hair, smoothing it. You don’t even realize you’ve started humming until she calls out your name and asks you.

“Liv?”

“Hm?”

“What are you humming?”

“I am?” You have to think back a little. “Oh. It’s an old lullaby. It’s been stuck in my head a lot, lately, God only knows why. I’ll be quiet now.”

For a while you’re both silent. And then–

“So how does it go again?” she says. “That – that lullaby?”

“Oh, you want me to–? It’s something like–” You hum a little to yourself, trying to get all your words straight. “Yeah. It’s – _I see the moon, the moon sees me,”_ you sing it out softly. _“Shining through the old oak tree, please let the light that shines down on me, shine–”_

_“–on the one I love,”_ she completes it.

“You know it!” A part of you is delighted for some reason.

“Yeah,” she says after a pause. “My dad used to – when – if he was home at night, he’d tuck me in and – he…” She falters.

“Mine, too,” you tell her softly.

“There was another stanza, too.”

“Another one? I only knew the one–”

“Yeah. It went … _over the mountain, and over the sea–”_

“Oh, no, please, stop! You’re killing my ears!”

She laughs and continues. _“Back where my heart is longing to be, please let the light that sh–”_

This time you cover her mouth with your hand and complete the verse yourself.

_“–shines down on me, shine on the one I love_ … My God! Atrocious! Your singing is atrocious, Olivia!”

She replies with something that sounds like _“Mmmf! Mumblemumblemumble!”_

“Oh, right, sorry,” you remove your hand.

She takes a heaving breath. “Well, don’t kill me for it, okay?”

“Okay,” you say, smiling at her in the dark. “Now, shut up and close your eyes, don’t make me do that for you.”

“Yeah yeah,” she says, but she does as she is told. And you resume your humming and the stroking of her hair.

“’S not fair,” she says after a few minutes have passed.

“What isn’t?”

“You having the better voice.”

You chuckle softly. “Ya think so?”

“Hm,” she says, somewhat drowsily. “You get everything.”

Your hand, smoothing hair away from her forehead, falters a little.

“That’s not true, Olivia.”

“But it is,” she insists, voice soft and slow with sleep. “You’ve got mom, she never remarried. You didn’t have to shoot your stepfather, or get abused by him. You weren’t experimented upon as a child…”

Your heart aches a little at her words, fingers moving aimlessly in her hair, unable to take away any of those hurts from her. You try but your voice shakes a little when you speak.

“You have Rachel,” you remind her. “And Ella.”

“Yes, but you’re better, smarter. Sexier.”

“Ooh, _that_ I definitely am!” You tease her lightly.

“And you couldn’t be content with that, you had to have the better singing voice as well,” she huffs.

“Oh, quiet, you! Get off your cross,” you tell her sternly. “You know what I think?” You bend down and carry on in a gentler tone, your voice almost a whisper. “I think you’re very smart and hot, and very, very sexy.”

“You think so?” she says, snuggling into you.

“I do.”

“Mm. I’ll–” she yawns. “–come back to it sometime later, and you can explain–” yawn “– how sexy I am.”

You smile. “Alright. Deal.”

“You know,” she says after a while. “This is nice.”

“What is?”

“This,” she says. “You.”

And that really makes you laugh with something akin to joy. “Yeah.”

“Mm-hm,” she says sleepily.

So you bend down your head, smooth back her hair, and plant a soft kiss on her forehead. Even in the dim light you can see the smile on her face as her breathing evens out into a smooth rhythm.

She’s asleep.

“Sweet dreams,” you tell her, before closing your own eyes.


End file.
